I belong to a top secret private Facebook group
I know what you’re thinking: you want in, but I can’t get you in.
I can’t even tell you its name; I can only call it Fight Club
And it lurks in the shadows between social media
And hearts of darkness, and it’s populated
By avatars and poseurs and bondage fantasies from people
Who get up in the morning and go to work.
Our captain is unstable; he has tantrums and leaves
Because leadership is hard, even under pretend conditions.
Fight Club devolves into high school mentality, and the spats break out:
My personal vendetta is against unsexy porn, and I shamed one man
Into removing some pictures of human-barbie sex, because
He’s usually a nice guy, and why should he debase himself?
I am the librarian tight-ass Princess Leia, and I get off on being mean.
We all have our freak flags.
For example, Serge posts pictures of his torture chamber.
Bob-O likes to show off his guns. Tinkie likes to show off her bottom.
Sissy likes to tell the other women they are fat.
A fight breaks out every day. That’s why we go. That’s why we quit in a huff.
That’s why we go back in. I belong to a top secret Fight Club,
and I know what you’re thinking: You feel left out. You should
But you’d get sore. And I would correct your grammar.
Our captain is a dictator, but if the heat gets too much,
If the private texts nagging, nagging, nagging him make him snap,
he trashes the place and shuts it down. And then we wander
like lost sheep for a few moments, dazed, uncertain,
but in fifteen minutes he starts a new Fight Club, and
he invites us all back in. I know what you’re thinking.
Trust. I actually know.
(“Fight Club.” Bad Shoe 2012. Vol. 3, Issue 1, Pages 3-4. Print. JK Publishing: St. Louis.)